


Why God Doesn't Talk To Us Anymore

by robotboy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderfluid Character, Vignette, melancholia, not angst but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 12:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: ‘What was it like? Falling?’





	Why God Doesn't Talk To Us Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this beautiful fanart by yumbles.](https://yumbles.tumblr.com/post/185966375578/crowley-and-aziraphale-run-into-each-other-in) Also the film _Cabaret_ , generally.
> 
> Apparently a theme I like to reuse is ['post-coital smoking on a balcony while thinking about how god has abandoned you.'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755343/chapters/39310006)
> 
> The blind monk actually lived in the early 1500s. Given what Kostnice Sedlec looks like now, it probably wasn't divine intervention.
> 
> Many thanks to [purplecelery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplecelery/pseuds/purplecelery) for extensive beta-reading on this one ♥︎

The bar has no sign. Only the smells of smoke and malt indicate that there’s anything behind the innocuous door. The wood was painted so long ago that the colour is indistinguishable at night. Aziraphale turns off the narrow street on a whim, following the faint music into the kind of venue that might be called a _den_.

He orders a drink at the bar. The tables are arranged sparsely enough that it’s difficult to make out other patrons’ faces. They form a shallow circle around a stage no brighter than the rest of the place. The band plays a seductive, modern tune, led by a tall singer in a black dress. Aziraphale watches her for a moment, and smiles.

She sings deep and drawling, like she could sing a lot better but the owner doesn’t pay her enough to bother. Or like she’s crooning into your ear, a secret she’s sharing with you—only you.

Aziraphale shivers. Sin hangs as thick in the air as the smoke. He doesn’t belong here. Only something else tells him that he _does:_ he wasn’t meant to stop by in Old Town, much less get a drink. But he’s here, indistinguishable from the other patrons in the gloom, watching her.

She barely opens her eyes, lashes heavy and lips pursed. _Bedroom eyes,_ a less savoury man than Aziraphale would call them. It’s only because Aziraphale knows what to look for that he glimpses a slice of amber and slit pupils.

Crowley hasn’t been a woman in a century or more, at least as far as Aziraphale knows. They’d parted on ill terms a few decades ago in St James’ park. Maybe she’s been in this shape since. Aziraphale has no way to know, and no clue what to feel about not knowing.

Aziraphale could never get the hang of changing his shape like Crowley. Crowley’s been an angel and a serpent and a demon. Aziraphale has more or less had wings or no wings. It’s in an angel’s nature, probably, not to question himself.

Only he _does_ question things. Why did Heaven need to send him from London to Bohemia for this assignment, for instance? Why not perform the occasional temptation over the years, as a favour to a friend? Why did he decide to stop here, at this grimy bar of ne’er-do-wells, with its admittedly good drinks?

He knows why, even if he shouldn’t be asking.

She doesn’t dance, exactly, but moves in slow twists like the music is unraveling her. It’s more fluid than the erratic, barely-balanced gait Aziraphale has come to associate with Crowley. But there’s still a sense that she doesn’t quite belong on legs, and would much rather be slithering. The shimmering dress helps, catching the lamplight like scales.

Her set finishes with muted applause. Everything is muted down here. She descends from the stage and floats to different tables, fingers trailing on the arms of wealthier-looking patrons, small talk exchanged at a volume too low to hear. Finally, she seems to select a favourite table, leaning so low on it that she’s almost sitting. She keeps her face turned coyly away from the gentleman who touches her arm, and the two of them get up together.

Aziraphale is moving, suddenly, and catches up to Crowley while she’s sauntering with her companion to the exit. She turns curiously when Aziraphale taps the man on the shoulder, but doesn’t look entirely surprised to see him.

‘Not tonight, sir,’ Aziraphale says, and with a moment’s pressure the gentleman remembers how dearly he would like to go home and tuck his children in. The fellow makes a short apology to Crowley, and hurries out of the bar. Crowley makes a sour face at him, but offers her arm.

‘I’m just next door,’ she says. She leads Aziraphale out onto the street and into the building adjacent. It’s a warm night, near the end of summer. The staircase is so snug that they ascend single file. The wood creaks ominously, and Aziraphale echoes with a noise of concern.

‘Scared, angel?’ she leans precariously off a bannister to grin at him.

 _‘Please_ don’t fall,’ Aziraphale cautions. Watching Crowley navigate stairs is a nail-biting spectator sport at the best of times.

‘Oh, I fell a long time ago,’ she chuckles.

‘You’re not funny,’ Aziraphale mutters.

Crowley invites him into at a little apartment at the top landing. The place is meticulously disheveled, just lived-in enough to make Crowley’s guests feel like her most intimate companions, although Aziraphale recognises the farce for what it is. Crowley hangs Aziraphale’s jacket and hat on a hook. She sheds her jewellery and shoes, fetching two glasses from the nominal kitchen.

‘So, are you in town for business, or pleasure?’ Crowley hands him a drink. It’s a noxious shade of green, and ought properly be served as a digestif, but Aziraphale takes it anyway.

‘Business,’ Aziraphale answers.‘There’s a blind monk to be blessed with visions.’

‘Should’ve told me,’ Crowley says. ‘I’ve been here almost a year. Could’ve saved you the trip.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Aziraphale says, overlooking the fact that Crowley didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address. Just a bit of paper that said _holy water_. ‘I haven’t been in these parts since the Celts came here from Prithanī.’

‘They’ve done it up nicely,’ Crowley gestures in an eastward direction. ‘The clock’s worth a look.’

‘I shall have to visit,’ Aziraphale agrees. ‘In the morning.’

‘Oh?’ Crowley smirks. ‘Are you busy tonight?’

‘Are _you?’_

Aziraphale says it just to see how Crowley cocks her head, teeth a little more pointed than they were a moment ago.

‘I am,’ her eyes flash gold. ‘Getting a drink with an old friend.’

And they do, for an hour or more. Midnight comes and goes, but the clock is just out of earshot. The city is quiet below them.

Aziraphale lets himself feel a little drunk. Drunk enough to ask.

‘What was it like? Falling?’

Crowley gives him a sidelong look, bemused but curious. Aziraphale expects her to throw it back as a question— _what brought this on?_ But he waits, expectant, until she answers.

‘It doesn’t feel like anything. You feel the same,’ she bites her lip, rolling it between her teeth. Then she pours herself another drink, topping up Aziraphale’s without asking. Her voice goes as quiet as a lullaby. ‘You’re exactly the same as before, only She doesn’t want you anymore.’

For a moment, Aziraphale can’t breathe. Crowley’s posture changes, as if she’s shrugging off the weight of the conversation. Aziraphale sips his drink. The anise is so strong it makes his eyeballs feel chilly.

‘Did your wings turn black?’ he asks, as if that can lighten the mood.

Crowley pulls a face at him. ‘They were always black.’

‘You don’t have… _creatures_ growing from your skin.’

 _‘You_ don’t have bits of gold stuck on your face,’ she points out.

‘It’s _gaudy,’_ that might be blasphemy, but it’s true.

‘There you are, then,’ Crowley finishes in one gulp, taking both their glasses and putting them on the dresser.

It started with oysters.

It probably started with an apple, but Aziraphale remembers the oysters. The way Crowley’s ridiculous glasses had slipped down his nose, his eyes dragging over Aziraphale with all the heat of hellfire. Aziraphale had flushed red and Crowley’s hand had slid up his thigh, and they’d somehow made it to a bathhouse before Crowley had crawled into his lap and shown him the meaning of temptation.

It was all very useful when they came to the Arrangement. There were plenty of opportunities to brush up on the ins and outs—as it were—of temptation. Practical lessons that Crowley was always generous in giving.

So, Aziraphale’s hand tracing up Crowley’s forearm is not unexpected. Crowley arches into the touch. She reaches over her shoulder to pat the buttons at the back of her neck. Aziraphale obliges by unfastening them, each one exposing more of her spine as the dress begins to part and slip her off like a shedded skin. Her back is all bones and sinew, shadows moving across her skin as she steps out of the dress. Aziraphale brushes his lips over her shoulder, fingers exploring the knobs of her spine until they reach her waist. Aziraphale’s hand curls around her and she turns, taking Aziraphale by the shirt and leading him back to the bed. 

Aziraphale leans in to kiss her and she pulls him down onto the mattress, so he lands on top of her before it happens. She kisses like a seduction he doesn’t need, and Aziraphale weathers it until the patience wears her down. He kneels around her lap, holding her face in both hands, learning the shape of her mouth again. The kind of kiss that feels like home.

She sucks his lip between her teeth, biting too gently to actually hurt. Aziraphale bumps their noses together as she takes his hand and guides it to her nipple. It hardens under his fingers as he thumbs and teases it, then the other. Crowley arches and purrs and combs her hands through his hair as he does. She crawls up the bed and hooks a thigh around him, luring him along with her. He slides his hand over her belly, then her hip, guiding the thigh higher. Crowley grabs his wrist again, urging him down, and inside. She’s wet and hot as he sinks a finger into her, her hips canting up to meet him.

‘Come on,’ Crowley sighs. ‘Give me two.’

Aziraphale shakes his head fondly, and obeys. Crowley hums in satisfaction, rocking against his hand at a pace of her choosing. She finds Aziraphale’s face for another kiss, and her leg tightens around his waist. Her fingers dip down to circle her clit. Aziraphale feels her moaning into his mouth, tongue clumsy against his as she starts to move faster.

‘Yes,’ Crowley says, with more than a little hissing. ‘Yes, yes, yes…’

It’s a litany and an instruction. Aziraphale thrusts his fingers, knuckles curling inside her to keep the pressure on that spot she likes, the one that makes her shiver from her scalp to her toes. Aziraphale is short of breath just watching her, feeling her. She’s got one hand around the back of his neck, digging into his spine rather sharply. There’ll be marks. He wants marks.

Aziraphale pushes deeper, and Crowley’s fingers move like lightning, and she comes with a long, throaty groan, thrusting into his hand and clenching tightly enough to make his joints ache. Aziraphale stays there through the aftershocks, as the quaking recedes and she starts to pet him with genuine affection. She finds the willpower to finish undressing him, but doesn’t let him out of her embrace the entire time. The difficulty of it makes Aziraphale smile.

Crowley flings herself into Aziraphale’s arms while she catches her breath, tangling their limbs together with a satisfied hum.

‘How does it feel?’ Aziraphale kisses the tattoo beside her ear. ‘When it’s like this?’

‘So full of questions tonight,’ she notes.

‘You don’t have to answer.’

Crowley makes a long, somewhat garbled noise, propping herself on her elbow to look at him. ’Hard to explain. You really have to try it for yourself.’

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale says. ‘Well, that’s… possible.’

And another question Aziraphale shouldn’t ask, but does: _why not?_

Crowley’s eyebrows say the same thing.

It takes a little more concentration than summoning wings, but it’s worth it for the grin on Crowley’s face. Then it’s worth it for the way Crowley’s touch explores the new shape of Aziraphale’s torso, then hips, tickling the expanse of his thighs. Crowley circles closer, eyes gleaming in the dark.

‘Do you want to try it first?’ she offers, and Aziraphale bites his lip.

‘You do it,’ he whispers, and Crowley’s finger slips between his thighs, pressing up and slicking him all over.

Aziraphale whimpers: it’s almost too much already. Crowley has three fingers rubbing over him, exploring the mounds and contours while Aziraphale adjusts to being touched.

‘Why don’t you tell _me_ what it’s like, angel?’ Crowley purrs.

 _‘Ah,’_ Aziraphale wriggles in frustration at the expectation of producing a coherent response. ‘Good, it feels… very, _very_ good…’

Crowley’s finger keeps almost slipping inside, the heel of her palm a firm pressure on Aziraphale’s clit, and Aziraphale is going to resort to undignified begging if this continues. He grabs Crowley’s hand, steering it down, until Crowley’s buried inside him to the last knuckle. Aziraphale can hardly breathe, holding it there, trembling, and has to bite back a scream when Crowley crooks her finger.

‘Wait,’ Aziraphale gasps, and Crowley stills. ‘No, keep going, I just want—I want…’

Aziraphale reaches between them, fingertips tracing his clit. It’s slightly painful from how sensitive it feels already.

‘Here, angel,’ Crowley grins, sauntering downwards. ‘Let me show you.’

And then Crowley does a truly excellent job of reminding Aziraphale that her tongue forks, when she wants it to.

Crowley’s mouth is quick and light. Her fingers thrust inside Aziraphale, curling and rocking. Aziraphale’s hips rise and sink, working with Crowley to find the right rhythm. Crowley’s tongue slows when Aziraphale starts trembling, and she switches to lapping over the sensitive skin with firm, flat licks. Aziraphale sighs, unclenching his hands—he hadn’t realised they were in fists. When Crowley returns her attention to Aziraphale’s clit, it’s with open-mouthed kisses that are obscenely wet. She sucks Aziraphale delicately between her lips, bobbing her head as the pressure deepens. This feeling, at least, is not entirely new—Crowley might have just winked at him in acknowledgement of the fact—and when Crowley’s mouth sinks down until her nose is buried in Aziraphale’s hair, their groans echo each other.

Snakes can also unhinge their jaws, Aziraphale remembers.

Aziraphale has to bite his fist to stop a yelp of pleasure. Crowley’s free hand tugs it away and Aziraphale can _feel_ her smiling, canting her head to experiment with a new angle. She laps over Aziraphale’s folds, suckling them in her mouth before returning to his clit, tongue weaving some kind of eldritch pattern. It could be a demonic glyph and Aziraphale wouldn’t care. All he can do is writhe and whimper and wonder if any of the times he’s done this for Crowley, if it has ever possibly felt _this_ good.

He tries to ask and it comes out as wordless pleading. Crowley glances up at him, hair fallen in her eyes. Aziraphale brushes it back, trying very hard not to pull, and cradles Crowley’s head in his hands. He can’t decide if she wants to pull Crowley back or closer, so he settles for holding her very firmly. Crowley hums, not the dark and lilting tune of earlier but something deeply pleased, and Aziraphale feels it buzz through her skin.

Crowley adjusts herself between Aziraphale’s thighs, and he doesn’t think anything of it—as long as she doesn’t take her mouth away—then a spindly finger strokes along his rear. Aziraphale’s thighs clench and relax as Crowley shoulders between them, and then Crowley’s fingertip is tracing his rim, nudging in and slipping out in a rhythm with Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale somehow hadn’t considered the idea of _both_ —but Crowley, clearly, knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s playing Aziraphale like an instrument, and all he can do is follow the tune.

Crowley’s tongue is tireless, finding a pattern that Aziraphale likes and quickening. Aziraphale’s thighs clamp around Crowley’s ears, but Crowley only takes it as encouragement. Aziraphale grows tighter and tighter until the moment everything shatters. Crowley’s fingers crook and press deep and nothing since creation itself has felt this _much_ all at once. Aziraphale shudders and bucks against Crowley’s face, groaning and begging as Crowley keeps him there, on that edge, until it becomes unbearably overwhelming.

‘That…’ Aziraphale gulps in air like he’s never tasted it before. ‘Was…’

‘… good?’ Crowley smacks her chops like she’s just had a meal. Then she starts licking her fingers clean.

’Nnh,’ Aziraphale agrees. He tucks a lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear.

‘You know we’re just getting started, don’t you?’ Crowley asks. And she plants her whole mouth on Aziraphale’s cunt and _sucks._

It’s possible Aziraphale screams. It’s possible his toes curl. It’s possible he kicks Crowley in the kidney, but Crowley doesn’t mention it.

It’s possible to come four times in one night, Aziraphale discovers.

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, exactly, but it’s pleasant not to move or take notice of anything for a while after. Rolling over, he sees the silhouette of Crowley leaning on the tiny balcony, smoking a spiced cigarette. She’s in a robe that’s as expensive as it is translucent. The ember of her cigarette is the same red as her hair. She tucks a stray lock behind her ear, nostrils flaring as she blows smoke.

Aziraphale shuffles out to stand beside her. She doesn’t speak, but her posture sort of slouches to accommodate him.

‘If it felt like nothing,’ Aziraphale asks. ‘How did you know?’

‘No,’ Crowley says eventually.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What you’re really asking,’ Crowley taps ash into the air. ‘The answer’s no.’

‘I’m not sure that I know what you—‘

‘You haven’t fallen.’

Aziraphale shuts his mouth. It had been the question.

‘This building,’ Crowley waves her hand, and smoke follows it in slow trails. ‘Used to be a chapel, oh, a few centuries ago.’

Aziraphale concentrates, and yes, Crowley is right. The bones of the building remember chants, and candle soot.

‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ Aziraphale frowns.

Crowley’s eyebrows rise in a long, complicated fashion before she answers. ’Tingles a bit. Enough that you’d notice.’

Aziraphale almost asks if this place was a test. But Crowley has lived here a while: she surely couldn’t have expected to run across an angel in need of reassurance.

‘If nothing changes,’ Aziraphale turns to her. ‘Do you still feel it?’

‘Hmm?’ she shakes her head, as if she were a million miles away. ‘Feel what?’

‘Love.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she shrugs. ‘Always could. Came in handy, with giving Eve the push in the right direction. _Wrong_ direction, from where you’re standing.’

’You never said.’

Crowley slouches deeper, tilting her chin up to look at the sky. ‘Hasn’t come up, I suppose.’

As if Crowley only mentions things when they’re relevant.

‘It’s just like anything else,’ she waves a hand. ‘You know that it’s there. Like the smell of the city. All the forbidden things people want deep down. The stars behind the clouds. Knowing where you are.’

It’s true. There are thousands of cities, millions of bars. But Aziraphale came here, tonight, without even thinking about the reason. Like birds know north. Like angels sense love.

 _‘Oh,’_ Aziraphale says, very quietly. For the first time tonight, Crowley looks at him: actually looks at him. ‘I always know where you are.’

Crowley smiles, the kind of smile that starts at one corner of her mouth before making its way to the other end, and finishes with her nose crinkling a little bit. ‘Yeah, angel. You do.’


End file.
